


(could you love this?)

by isyotm



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Crush, Multi, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Pre-Heartbreak Incident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 16:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isyotm/pseuds/isyotm
Summary: An unfortunate revelation during a practice match.For Sidesteps who had a secret crush on Ricardo.





	(could you love this?)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "If I'm Being Honest" by Dodie.

It hits you like a punch to the gut.

It hits you like a punch to the gut because you were never supposed to feel this way about anyone, didn’t even know it was something you were capable of. Maybe you could’ve once, if things had been different, but you thought that part of you had been ripped out and shredded to pieces, along with anything good that might’ve had the chance to grow inside of you. When they made you _you_ , they burned everything to cinders and salted the earth behind them. Nothing is supposed to be able to grow in the desolate landscape of the “life” you’ve managed to stitch together for yourself. Nothing beautiful, anyway.

It hits you like a punch to the gut because it’s accompanied by one, although you know that wasn’t on purpose. You’d been keeping pace with Ortega pretty well so far, but then he flashed you one of those trademark cocky grins as he dodged your left hook (you’d hoped to catch him off-guard with your non-dominant hand—no luck) and your brain stuttered to a halt. No telepathic feedback either to warn you he noticed too late the way your arms stopped, the guard you’d planned on putting up aborted halfway through the motion.

In a way, having the breath knocked out of your body like this helps. As you bend double, clutching your sore stomach and trying to re-teach your lungs the rhythm they’ve been forced out of, your eyes focus on the gray linoleum of the gym floor and you manage to regain control of yourself, no smile to distract you. Out of sight, out of mind.

Of course, you do have to stand up at some point. You can’t just crab-walk around headquarters until these inconvenient feelings go away.

“Are you alright?” He reaches out and places a (you’re sure he meant it to be soothing, but unexpected contact never is) hand on your shoulder, touchy as always, and you feel your face heat from something more than the exertion. Oh boy. That’s not good.

“Yeah,” you say, breathless for all the wrong reasons. “Just give me a second.”

Emotions are dust. Accumulating on every surface, an indication of neglect and a lack of discipline. Unwanted, unneeded, cloudy, and dirty. _Wipe them away._ You need clarity. You take a deep breath. And another. One more. You straighten, shake out your limbs, and flash a smile that you hope looks more confident than it feels on your face.

“Man, that was quite a punch. I’m glad we said no electricity earlier, or I think I might’ve been down for good. And here I thought you were starting to slow down in your old age.” Teasing is easy, familiar, something you can focus on as you try and shove your newly kick-started heart into the box where you keep everything else you don’t want to deal with.

He makes a face at the jab. Good. Ortega is hardly _old—_ he’s still the Marshal, still a significant threat as he comes around the corner, fists crackling with electricity—but the hero game is for the young and he hates to be reminded that the clock is ticking. “Don’t underestimate the value of experience.” He punctuates the word “experience” with a forward jab that you easily dodge, although the surprise axe kick he follows up with nearly knocks you over. At least he’s focused on the fight, brow furrowed in concentration, and not—

He flashes another grin, your heart stutters, and before you know it you’re down again.

“You keep this up and we might have to come up with a new name for you, Sidestep.” The smile is still there, but the edges of it are wavering, weighed down by concern.

“Ha. Ha.” You’re tempted to just lie here forever. No, no. After the life you’ve had, you can’t let something like _this_ stop you. _Wipe it all away._ “I promise, it’s just you.” And what an unfortunate way to phrase that. Despite your best efforts, it seems like this whole thing is starting to get to you. Maybe—

“Maybe we should take a break,” Ortega offers, generous in victory, as he reaches out a hand to help you up. You ignore it, because you always ignore his offers for more physical contact, because if just a pat on the back was enough to make you blush then holding his hand is certainly behind you right now, and stand up on your own, shaking your limbs out again. You can feel the strain of a good sparring session in your shoulders, back, and legs, and a bruise blossoming just below your diaphragm.

Ugh, how annoying.

You’ll have to try and hide that for a while. Hopefully your next time out with the Rangers will happen soon enough that you can pass it off as a battle wound. If Ortega knows he’d hit you hard enough to bruise during a friendly practice match he’ll drive everyone crazy trying to make it up to you.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” you say, breathing heavily for effect. “Thanks for working out with me.”

“Of course.” He smiles at you again, always smiling, his eyes warm enough to melt a little bit more of the icy wall you try so hard to keep between you and everyone else. “Any time.”


End file.
